


Casual affection

by laudanum_and_wine



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, I just want everyone to be sad about Stan Pines, all the family feels, but I swear it's a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-03-24 03:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13802658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudanum_and_wine/pseuds/laudanum_and_wine
Summary: Stan Pines gets into a fistfight with his brother when they're 27 years old. That's the last time he gets to touch a member of his family for almost thirty years.(Otherwise known as, Stan Pines is More Subtly Tragic Than He Had Any Right to Be)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This came about as an unwanted thought that made me sad at 3 in the morning: if Stan has been pretending to be Ford for 30 years, then he'd have to wear gloves every time he saw his family.

When the twins were born, he'd driven all night to come see them. He'd been forced to roll the window down to let the cold air keep him awake, but he'd made it to the hospital the next day, tired and vaguely nauseous from cheap gas station coffee. 

The moment he entered the room Mabel had been placed in his arms gently, before he could even take his coat off, and he'd rocked her while staring down at sleepy brown eyes that probably didn't even register color and shapes clearly. He'd lifted one hand, about to gently boop her tiny nose, when he looked at his finger.

He was still wearing gloves. He'd pulled on an old pair, from the glovebox. A specialty pair, his brother had no doubt spent good money on or had modified himself, with a sixth finger stitched in.

“Take off your coat, stay awhile.” Shermy had tried to invite Stan into the group now cooing over tiny Mason and his adorable birthmark.

“I'm fine here,” Stan managed, distractedly. He couldn't tear his gaze from the tiny girl swaddle in his arm, pink faced and drowsy. Half of his mind was panicking: he knew he couldn't stay, knew that the charade would be up as soon as he took his gloves off, knew that if he moved from this spot, this exact spot, he'd never have a reason to explain why he was still wearing a coat and gloves indoors. In August. But he just couldn't move, couldn't bear to let this tiny precious warmth go, and this other part of his mind was frozen with quiet wonder.

Thank goodness for Shermie, his brilliant older brother who knew his family enough to understand talking wasn't always possible.

“Here. Sit,” Shermie tugged Stan over to a chair, and gently slipped the other twin into his arms with a smile. “Hold these for a bit, would ya?" Shermie joked then moved back to talk to his a nurse.

Stan hardly noticed who was in the room. Now happily trapped with both arms full he was unable to remove his gloves. He could not be more grateful. He kept his eyes locked on those tiny soft faces, their scrunched up brows and toothless little mouths. 

The one on the left began a small hiccuping cry, bringing him back into the moment, and Stan realized that the sun had moved quite a ways and was warming his back through the window now. Shermie was standing over Stan, his arms out, offering to take the squirming baby. Stan passed it over, the one with the birthmark he realized, then looked back down to Mabel still in his arms. 

“So you're the strong silent type, huh Mabel? Keep an eye on your brother, okay kiddo?” Stan pressed one finger to her cheek, and leaned down almost brushing his nose against her soft wispy hair, when Shermie came back. His face startled away with just the vague scent of baby lingering.

“Back to reality there Stan?” Shermie gently reached down and lifted Mabel away as she squirmed. “You really fell for them fast, didn't ya?”

“Yeah,” Stan cleared his throat, realizing he'd been mesmerized by the twins for longer than he'd planned. “They're perfect.”

“You staying a while then Stan?” Shermie gently rocked the baby, “Ma should be here tomorrow, and Jess is coming over with her.” 

“Ah no,” Stan stood, tugging at his coat. “I actually can't stay too long. I should be going.”

“Really, so soon?” 

“Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I left without really making plans. I'll uh-,” Stan stood, stepping briskly to the door. “I should go.”

“I'll send mom your love.” Shermie was quiet and obviously disappointed. Stan nodded once, and was out the door, with just a momentary pause as his view of the twins was cut off. 

Twenty minutes later Stan was parked behind a pancake house on the other side of town. His eyes were bleary with the exhaustion just now setting in. With a smile he adjusted his seat and the mirror so that the setting sun would hit him directly in the face in a few hours and hopefully wake him. After a moment of settling in he touched his glove to his face, imagining the warmth transfer from tiny baby cheek, to leather gloves, to his own skin.

“Twins," he muttered happily at the mirror as he nodded off slowly. "What are the odds..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How much do you want to bet going to your own funeral is just AWFUL?

He sat in a parking lot two blocks down the street for over an hour just waiting for his hands to stop shaking on the steering wheel. When he finally decided that he couldn't stall any longer, he locked up the car and walked the along the cemetery fence to the pedestrian gate. It was still cold, the grass yellowed and cropped in the last throes of winter. The hearse and procession of trailing cars pulled into the cemetery and crawled past him when he was almost to the grave site itself.

He waited for the procession to form itself from as far behind as he thought he could get away with. He'd missed the spoken memorial, he’d actually been avoiding calls altogether the last week, so he hadn't been asked to be a pallbearer. A pallbearer at his own funeral, at his brothers, no twins- no. 

“This is not Stanford’s funeral,” he told himself. “This is not goodbye, this is just a sad little con. This is something I should hate myself for doing to my family, but Stanley Pines was bound to hurt the people he loved sooner or later. At least it's out of the way.”

It didn't matter which of their funerals it really was, the casket would be empty.

When his mother finally climbed from the last car with puffy red eyes and a handkerchief gripped tightly, Stan almost sobbed. He caught the noise in his throat before it got out, could feel it like a ball of jagged glass trying to jump from his mouth. As Shermie took her arm she looked at Stan, his distance from the family, his blank face. She must have thought she was seeing a man at his twins funeral. She turned into Shermie’s chest to hide fresh tears and was hurried to the grave.

The grave: the hole, in the ground, where his body would not be, and his brother would not be, and his family would cry over the dirt. If he couldn't fix this, his brother would never even have a real- no.No, he wasn't going down this path. This was awful right now, but he was going to fix it, he was going to get Stanford back. He knew it wouldn't fix the grief he was causing at this moment, but if his mother had to think one of her boys was dead… At least this wasn't coming out of left field. The odds had always been that Stanley Pines would die young and stupid. 

Stan stopped staring into the middle distance as the last of his family milled around the casket, which had been settled into the belts that would lower it to the ground.

Stan idly wondered if there was anything in the coffin. Maybe his mother had pulled some worn coat from storage, maybe his letterman from high school. Stan wondered why the hell they bothered. He shook his head and tried to school his face into a look less resembling disgust. 

Nothing was said as the coffin was lowered. He imagined it had all been said at the memorial. He imagined his family had not understood why Stanford didn’t deliver his twin’s eulogy. He hated his imagination. 

“Sorry Stanford, I’m already wrecking your good name,” he whispered the words, watching his brother’s- no. Watching the empty box be lowered into the ground. He wind pulled his breath away as he huddled deeper into his jacket. 

“Stanford.” 

“Dad.” 

Filbrick Pines had moved away from the grave, and stood a respectable four feet from Stan. They did not make eye contact, rather choosing to watch Shermie and Jess talking over Mom as they both held her hands. 

“You weren’t at the service,” Filbrick finally glanced over from under a dark hat. Stan found he couldn’t look directly at the man’s face.

“I couldn’t-” He began brokenly, then paused. He had to be Stanford right now, couldn’t show any of his frustration and grief. Would his brother have even grieved? Stan wasn’t sure. He hoped. The silence stretched while Stan composed the part of “Stanford Pines” as a role to act in. “I was not able to attend, no.” His voice was much stronger now, factual. 

Stan watched out of the corner of his eye as Filbrick moved his attention away from his son, seemingly satisfied, watching his other children again who were approaching them with their mother in tow. 

“Oh Stanford-” Ma began, then stumbled the last few steps to him. Without a thought, Stan reached out to wrap his arms around her. When did she get so small? Had he been taller than her the night he left? He felt his gloved hand catch in her hair as she gripped his shirt. He stared at that last finger on the glove, the one he’d carefully run a bent wire into, filled with sand, and stitched shut from the inside. He’d been so careful with the stitches, so that he could take them out again when he returned the gloves to Stanford. 

“It’s okay Ma. We’re going to be okay,” Stan pulled her back and tried a smile. “I promise Ma. I love you.”

She was reaching out as though to pat his cheek when Jess sobbed suddenly, and in a moment the two women were wrapped together in a clinging hug, hiccuping and crying as Shermie led them back to the car. Filbrick and Stan were left, watching the mourners file back into their vehicles slowly, with only the scent of his mother's perfume in the air for a moment before the wind carried it away.

“Will you be coming back to the house with us?” Filbrick’s voice was as steady as ever. 

“No, I think I may stay here for a bit.” 

Filbrick nodded, shifting to leave then pausing. He glanced back at Stan, and Stan made the mistake of looking into his father’s eyes for the first time that day. They were dry but red, bloodshot with lack of sleep and dry grief. The only kind of grief a real man would allow himself, Stan thought.

“I was waiting for him to come home, rich and famous, to rub it in my face. I was waiting for him to prove me wrong for years. And then after a while I was hoping that he hated me so much he couldn’t be bothered to come home, and that's why he was still gone. And now I don't care why, I just wish he'd-.” 

Stan couldn’t look away from his father’s eyes, bloodshot and dry as they were. And old, so much older than Stan ever imagined. After a moment, Filbrick blinked, straightening his tie, and cleared his throat. 

“Stanford. We’ll look forward to seeing you at the house once you’re done here.” 

And with that the man was gone, carefully bending to climb into the car, while Shermie held the door respectfully for his aging father.

Stan stood, watching the black cars leave the cemetery in a row. A pair of workers approached the gaping hole in the grass, glancing at Stan once. He realized they were waiting for him before they filled in the grave. Stan nodded at them and stepped back a pace, watching the two men begin to dig into the pile of loose earth, heaping mound after mound of dark cold earth over his brother’s coffin. 

“I’m getting you back, damnit. I’m going home, and I’m going to make this right.” He glared at the dark of the earth until the shapes and colors made no sense any longer. Then he turned, hands cold in his borrowed gloves, and walked the two blocks back to his car. He drove through the night, until the sunrise hit his eyes in the rearview mirror as it warmed the horizon of Illinois.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kids arrive in Gravity Falls, and Stan is a little shell shocked by the whole idea.
> 
> I stayed up way too late finishing this chapter. No beta, and I got stupid sentiment on this one but can't tell if that reads.
> 
> Edit: thank you guys for the kudos and comments, it's meant a lot to me that this is being enjoyed!

The crickets were loud in the warm air, and Stan sat wondering how people kept them out of their houses. Or if other people in town bothered to keep them out. Sure, all the windows had screens, but the house was drafty with the number of holes it had developed. It was little wonder the bugs came and went as they pleased. He thought idly about if there were cricket traps, did other people really care about crickets in their house? Did other people even have cricket problems? Did Shermie’s grandkids have to deal with crickets on a nightly basis? Did crickets bite?

Stan shook himself out of his wondering: he couldn't do a damn- no, a darn thing about the crickets, and the kids probably didn't notice or care. He vaguely recalled that crickets could bite, but only if you caught them. The kids were absolutely NOT going to wake up traumatized and covered in bug bites. Well, not from crickets. Oh shi- shoot, rather. Had he swept the spiderwebs out of the attic? He thought so, but was that the day before they came or a week before..? He couldn't recall just now. Okay, if the kids woke up covered in bug bites he had calamine. It would be an adventure, right? Kids love adventure.

This was a terrible idea.

Stan recognized that he was literally sitting alone in the dark thinking about worst case scenarios. He wasn't even sure how long he'd been sitting there: the clock said 3:73, and thinking about it he was really sure that clock was deeply fuc- messed up. 

The kids bus hadn't even arrived until five thirty that afternoon anyway. The light was just starting to glow with the golden beginnings of a late summer sunset, sinking low through the trees. He'd tried to plaster on his best cheerful smile when he'd shown up at the bus stop at five pm, but that disposition had faded as the sun set. By the time five thirty rolled around Stan was glaring at the median on the far side of the road with a touch of venom. He didn't actually notice the bus until it was pulling up, but quickly tried to reset his features into his normal smile. Well, after a second he remembered to tone it down to a less manic grin: these were kids to win over, not customers to fleece.

The two children filled out after the driver, who retrieved the children's luggage from below the bus. The kids looked nervous and tired, and the driver annoyed. 

“Hey kiddos! Welcome to Gravity Falls! You guys have a long trip?”

“Hi Grunkle Stan! You look nothing like I imagined from the phone!” The girl, Mabel, walked up with a smile, dragging her bag behind her.

“Uh, yeah?” 

“Yeah, it's AWESOME! Wow, the trees are SO HUGE HERE!” Mabel dropped the bag, and ran to the closest tree, gazing up from its base. “Wow…”

“Sorry we were late, the bus got a flat outside of Redding,” the boy, his mom said he went by Dipper? Dipper dragged Mabel's bag and his own to the car. Stan raised a hand to help him, but by the time he'd thought to do so Dipper had already opened the car door and was moving their things into the back seat. Stan stood, arm raised awkwardly for a moment, before tucking his hands back into his pockets.

“The driver let us sit outside and watch him change the flat!” Mabel shouted over the sound of the bus pulling away, then ran back from the tree to help Dipper push the bags into the back seat.

“That's a useful thing to learn,” Stan commented, already overwhelmed at the amount of energy these two had.

“It would have been if Mabel hadn't played twenty questions at the driver and gotten us sent back onto the bus.”

“I just wanted to know how the lifty thing worked! And you don't know, you were reading.” 

“I was paying attention! And if you wanted to know about the jack, why was he explaining spark plugs when he kicked us back onto the bus?”

“He kept answering my questions! The guy knew everything about cars, you could tell, he wanted to share his wisdom!”

“He probably wanted us to shut-”

“Hey, you kids hungry?”

The twins lept into the backseat before he could move an inch.

Stan hadn't fully appreciated just how much food children could consume in one sitting. They were so dang small, where the hel- heck did they put it? His food budget was about to skyrocket, he could just tell. At first a meal at the diner had seems like a costly idea, but man it was worth it: he wasn't sure he would have had enough food in the house for these two just yet.

“Did you kids get a lunch today, or are you just doing your best vacuum impressions?” 

“Dad packed us a bagged lunch, but someone got hungry early,” Mabel was polishing off the mashed potatoes on her turkey dinner, slowing only occasionally to bury green beans in them and make squishing noises. Stan could see that over behind the bar Lazy Susan had pulled out three slices of pie already, she'd been utterly charmed by the kids. And honestly, free pie, Stan wasn't gonna complain.

“So what do you kids eat for breakfast anyhow?” Stan pushed away his plate.

“Normally cereal, but we're not picky,” Dipper was chewing thoughtfully on his broccoli. “You don’t need to do anything special for us Great Uncle Stan. We'll have whatever you have!” 

“I don't think black coffee is quite acceptable for your age kiddo,” Stan pushed his plate away and watched Dipper out of the corner of his eye. The kid was trying to be considerate, Stan knew, but kids his age normally didn't even think about that stuff. Stan thought back to his conversation with the kids father at the end of spring: their dad had implied that money was a little tight, and it was obvious Dipper had picked up on that fact despite his parents best efforts. Well, Stan could admit that he might be cheap but he could definitely feed two kids over the summer, he just need to go grocery shopping. Probably tonight.

“Anyone leave room for dessert?” Susan swung around the corner of the booth with a smile and three slices of pie balanced in her hands. “On the house! Wink!” Susan blinked at Stan, who found himself smiling.

“Thanks Susan! What do we have here, chocolate, cherry, and is that lemon meringue?” The kids hastily pushed back their plates, trading them for pie with loud thank-yous. 

“So who are these little monsters, Stan? Your grandkids?” Susan leaned against the table smiling at the children and the switched slices of pie halfway through.

“Nah, my brothers grandkids. They're visiting for the summer.” Stan pushed his desert around and realized that he would likely end up surrendering most of it to the twins to finish.

“We're here to get Fresh Air and Exercise, and to Stay Out of Trouble,” Mabel recited it like it was a script, then elbowed her brother gently with a laugh. Dipper seemed a little less enthused with Mabel's description.

“Yeah, that's what we told their parents,” Stan placed on his best grin like he was letting Susan in on a secret. “But they don't realize all the adventures kids can have in this town. They're gonna have a great time.”

“Oooh, you guys gonna do anything fun tonight?” Susan began gathering their left over dishes, and Stan felt the kids eyes on him.

“Ah, not tonight,” Stan pushed the remainder of his pie at Dipper, who immediately dug in. “Just grocery shopping for now.”

The kids hadn't seemed disappointed by the prospect of boring old shopping, though Stan was sure the pie had helped. By the time they'd paid the bill both twins were starting on a post-desert sugar high. 

Shopping for food with two children on a sugar high was a totally new experience for Stan. He felt very awake, and also like he was supposed to have more arms then he did: he just couldn't grab the children or the things they threw into the cart fast enough. It was a blur, and he ended up walking after the dynamic pair with both hands firmly glued to the shopping cart. He finally found himself standing in the line looking down at a cart filled with canned meat, carrots, toaster pastries, a gallon of milk, and three sugar based breakfast cereals. This wasn't enough real food, and there was a lot of sugar involved. Stan looked from the toaster pastries to Dipper, who's eyelids were finally starting to droop. Stan reached out to steady a leaning Mabel, but she jolted upright moments before collapse. His hand gripped at thin air, and he realized the kids were crashing from a long day.

“Okay, put it all on the conveyer belt and let's get home,” he sighed, and pulled out his wallet.

Stan sent the kids into the house with their luggage, and took two trips to haul the groceries in himself. When he found them they were in the living room, Mabel seated on her bag while Dipper had gotten face-to-tooth with the large skull he used as an end table.

“You kids tired?” 

Mabel made an affirmative noise and let herself flop backward to the floor. Dipper poked at a long fang on the skull as though he hadn't heard a thing.

“Come on, let's get you up the your bedroom,” Stan grabbed their bags and led the way up the stairwell to the attic room. He opened the door with one shoulder, revealing two beds, each stacked with fresh linen and blankets. Sure, the blankets were a bit ragged, but there were a lot of them, and it was summer. “I know it's a bit small, but we'll decorate it tomorrow and make it a little more homey…” He trailed off, glancing down to the kids.

They didn't look at all upset at the appearance of the room, Dipper tugging the blankets out from the bed on the left and Mabel faceplanting into the mattress on the right. 

“You saw the bathroom on the way up?” Dipper nodded, and Mabel waived one hand vaguely.

“Okay, mine is the room across from that. You need anything, just come wake me up.” Stan stood at the door a moment, watching the twins pull their bags apart, then retreated away with a soft click of the door.

From the living room he heard them chatting quietly. Heard them brushing their teeth together (and the quiet accusations and laughter when Mabel got toothpaste in her hair). Heard them clambering back to their attic room. He listened and swore that he could hear them breathing. Everything they did seemed so loud, he was listening for heartbeats in the dark when he finally realized what he heard was just the noises of night. The crickets crying, the creak of the house settling, the scratch of a squirrel on the roof. The room was dark, and the night seemed so full of life.

And here he was, alone and sad. The kids upstairs had each other, the squirrel had some nest, even the crickets were singing together. And here he was, an old man, alone in a dark house. 

The stars wheeled slowly, as the time slipped passed Stan found he couldn't muster the motivation to get up. He tried to convince himself it was just one task: he just had to go down to the lab to get some work in.

But going to the lab meant standing. Then walking to the vending machine, then remembering the code and prying the darn thing open (why hadn't he installed something more lightweight than a vending machine?). Then the stairs, which would make his knees ache, and the rickety elevator with it's terror-inducing void below that he tried not to think about all the long ride down. Then powering up the lab, and- the whole thing was such a chore.

It would be so much easier to just stay here, on this worn chair, listening to the sounds of the strange forest outside of his borrowed house.

A rhythmic creaking on the stairs that pulled him out of his sullen reverie. Stan looked up at the doorway just in time to see Mabel step from around the corner.

“Grunkle Stan?” Her voice was so small in the dark

“Yeh-” he cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah kiddo?”

“I can't sleep. The animals are so loud here,” Mabel trundled into the living room. “That's not it though, not really. Everything is just so different than at home.”

Stan scooted to one side and patted the seat next to him. With a smile, the girl hopped up and sat facing forward. They both gazed at the powerless television set silently.

“So why are you awake, Grunkle Stan?”

“I, ah. I just wasn't tired.” Stan scratched at his hairline, watching her from the side of one eye.

“Are your thoughts too loud? Mine get too loud sometimes,” Mabel folded her hands into a steeple and wriggled her fingers. “Sometimes I just sing in my head, though, and that helps! Unless I get a song stuck in my head and can't remember the ending. That's the worst. I guess singing isn't exactly a foolproof plan.”

Stan nodded in confused agreement, and stared back at the blank TV in front of them. 

“Every bad thing only looks darker at night.”

“What?” Stan's head whipped to the left to look at the kid.

“It’s what Grampa used to say,” the girl nodded wisely at the TV. Without warning she reached over and gripped his hand in her own so gently. He thought it should burn him, how warm her hand was. It should leave a scar, like the red hot metal of lab equipment. Or like acid eating through a plastic glove. Or like holy water and the cross. 

Stan blinked, trying to bring himself back to the present and out of self loathing. Mabel smiled and continued as though she hadn't noticed,“But even if things are bad, it really will look better in the morning.”

And just like that he remembered the words for this weird little nursery rhyme that he hadn't heard in over fourty years. Stan squeezed her hand gently and recited in perfect unison with her:

“So just go to sleep!”

They laughed together for a moment.

“How did you know the words?” Mabel smiled up at Stan.

“Your great-grandmother used to say that to us kids at night. No matter how well we hid it, she knew when we were staying up late. She was a psychic, after all,” Stan rolled his eyes, but the girl seemed rapt at those words. “My brother was always up worried about a test or something, and our mother would lean into the room and say that. Normally she'd shout that last bit.”

“He stayed up worrying about school? I didn't realize Grandpa Shermie was such a nerd,” Mabel was leaning sleepily against him now, and he resisted a cringe at the lie by omission, but she continued on sleepily. “Guess he and Dipper have a lot in common.” 

“Yeah... You tired now kiddo?” 

“Yeah,” Mabel yawned into her arm, then hopped off the chair, letting go of his hand. “I should go back upstairs, don't want to scare Dipper by being missing when he wakes up in a strange new room. And you- just go to sleep!” She mimicked a glare at the last line, making him smile fondly.

“Okay, I will, promise.”

She padded a few feet towards the hall then turned and padded back, reaching up to hug Stan goodnight like they'd done this a million times.

“Night pumpkin.” 

“Night Grunkle Stan!”

He sat there smiling as the sound of small feet thumped up the stairs. He sat there for a good while after, waiting for his smile to fade, but it didn't seem to want to. Finally he surrendered to the comfortable mood, and unfolded himself to head up to sleep as well. The path from chair to bed was still too many steps, but the task felt less daunting then heading to the lab. And his mother had always been right, even when she was speaking through a twelve year old: dwelling on things in the dark hadn't helped his brother's tests, and it wouldn't help him now. And besides, he'd promised.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter finally done! Whew, have I ever finished a multi chapter fic before? I think perhaps not!
> 
> Does this chapter fit in cannon? No. Was it fun to write? Absofuckinglutely.

It had been the longest day he could remember since he'd put the plate into his skull. Immediately prior to that the days were arguably just as long, only he wasn't sleeping so he was forced to experience more of them in a row without a break and that had caused time to drag, to say the least. But even the memories of those days seemed shorter, now. Even the week spent hiding in the cyclopean sewers of that awful grey planet had been less long and stressful than this day.

Ford realized he'd frozen to contemplate this relativism of time in the midst of a shared meal. He finished the last few bites of cold hot dog on his plate, then stood.

“Thank you, Mabel, for making us all dinner. Ah, thank you for reminding us to eat as well.” Ford reached for her plate and raised his eyebrows in question. The girl quickly swiped a blob of ketchup off the china then pushed the plate toward him.

“And thank YOU for cleaning up, Grunkle Ford!” She glanced over at Dipper, who'd eaten the bun from around his hotdog distractedly. When Ford reached for his plate, Dipper pushed it forward immediately, then paled when he glanced at the hand that took it. Ford paused with a little worry in his eyes.

“Psh, Dip-n-dot’s fine, he's probably just still nauseous.” Mabel bounced out of her chair and tugged at Stan's empty plate.

“I am not! I'm just… Not hungry.”

“Yeah, and also turning into a lizard-person: your face is all green! Wait-” the girl turned to Ford, pointing at him with Stan's still ketchup covered plate, “Is that a thing? Are lizard-people a thing?”

Ford watched a glob of ketchup slip from the plate to the floor. “Yes, although it's interesting to note that the ones I met were actually lizard sized, not human sized as the earth-based stories seem to think.”

“Ha, that's why you're the short one Bro-Bro! You're obviously turning into a tiny lizard man!”

“I don't think that's how-” Ford was cut off by Waddles shoving at his leg roughly. He stepped aside as the pig snorted up the spilled ketchup. 

Dipper was shouting at his sister now, and Mabel had, at some point, handed Ford the last plate and was pulling at her nose and shouting something back in a much more jovial tone than her brother.

Ford managed to deposit the plates into a half-full sink, tripping left then right around the now running children, navigating himself slowly out into the hallway. From behind him a crash sounded and a gravelly voice followed.

“For Pete's sake, kids, quit goofin’ off and get ready for bed!” Stan half shouted the words, stood, and stormed out of the room.

The children slowed their running and finally stopped on the first floor landing where Ford had extricated himself to. He now blinked owlishly down at them.

“It's been really nice getting to know you, Great Uncle Ford,” the boy, Dipper, managed to say the words to Ford's knees rather than make eye contact.

“Yeah, it's super awesome to have TWO Grunkles!”

Ford opened his mouth, wanting to tell them that he was enjoying their company as well, and that he was happy to have a chance to meet them, but even as his mind composed the words it ground to a halt. Mabel had jumped the few feet that separated them and was now clinging to him with both arms.

Her tiny hands were locked to the gaberdine of his coat with vice strength. Where her face was pressed to his sweater the fabric was warm with her breath, and he could vaguely smell something like marshmallows. His hands reached out to gently squeeze the girls shoulders in return, seemingly of their own volition.

“Goodnight Great Uncle Ford!”

She then bolted up the stairs past Dipper. The boy still looked just a little shell shocked whenever Ford made eye contact. The child managed an awkward wave, then hurriedly tripped up the stairs after his sibling.

Ford belatedly waved back. After a moment of blank confusion he realized he was alone here on the ground floor of the house, standing in the half dark and blinking inanely at an empty stairwell. He could not for the life of him remember what he was supposed to be doing. His brain was stuck on the scent of marshmallow.

When Stan finally found his brother he was sitting up on the sofa and staring into space in his old study. The fresh linens for the bed were still folded atop the blankets Stan had left earlier that evening.

“She really did a number on ya, didn't she?” Stan leaned against the open door frame, trying to look relaxed and failing just a little.

“Hm?” Ford blinked a few times before looking over at him. “Whom?”

“Mabel. That hug goodnight.” Ford looked blank, then for a moment looked as though he was going to deny it. Stan pressed on, stepping into the room, “She did the same thing to me, you know. Just up and hugged me like it was perfectly normal, just the way anyone would say goodnight.”

Ford moved over on the sofa slightly to make grudging room for his brother. Stan didn't hesitate to sit, he wasn't going to take even a moment of this for granted.

“The thing is, I don't think I'd had a real hug for years. Literally years. Even when they were born, I'd had to hold them with your gloves on, and had to leave town right after so that didn't get weird.” Ford snorted slightly, but Stan continued on before his brother could say something to derail his thoughts. “I'm sorry you didn't get to see em when they were tiny, Ford. They were so perfect, I've never seen anything like it. That baby smell, you hear about it as a joke but seriously, I'll never forget that baby-head smell. But that was just thirty minutes of holding a baby who couldn't even focus its eyes, it wasn't quite the same as normal physical contact with people who know you. Eh, people who love you. And this summer, they come rushing into the house like little hurricanes, giving out hugs grabbing my hand to cross the street, and just... It was a lot at first.”

Ford had gone back to staring ahead of himself, but Stan could tell he was listening.

“It was a lot for me, but I had seen people every day,” Stan paused, considering his words. “I had seen human people every day.”

Ford looked downright rigid now, as though he was waiting for a cutting remark. The twins sat in silence.

“Anyway, I just remembered it was pretty bizarre to have the kids running around here all of the sudden. But it gets easier, and it's worth it. And it never stops feelin’ amazing.” Stan stood and headed out of the room before he said the wrong thing and they started fighting over something stupid.

“They're, ah-” from the sofa, eyes still locked on the far wall, Ford spoke. “They seem like truly exceptional children. I look forward to getting to know them as well as you seem to.”

“Man, you still talk just like a damn textbook. Dipper is gonna love you,” Stan smiled widely.

“You think so?” Ford looked up, smiling but still looking like he was completely serious about the question. For the first time since he'd arrived he looked totally honest, totally open: he genuinely wasn't sure how his own great-nephew would feel. Stan thought about saying something cutting now that he had a chance and Ford was wide open.

“Yeah. How could he not?” 

Stan pushed away from the door, trying to leave on a high note. He could feel the throb of anger behind his eyes, fury from his brothers openness to a relationship with anyone other than him, frustration that it seemed Ford would be willing to care about the opinion of literally anyone-not-Stanley. Whatever he and Ford had to work out, it wasn't Dipper’s problem. He didn't want the kid exposed to dangerous crap, but the boy deserved to have both his Grunkles in his life.

Stan walked up the creaking stairs to his own room, closing the door in darkness. He stood in the gloom, gazing out the window and downstairs. On the lawn below Stanford’s shadow cast through the study window, an unmoving profile thrown onto the jagged weeds of the lawn by blazing lights.


End file.
